


Father Confessor

by keerawa



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to my betas, Springwoof and Brynnmck.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Father Confessor

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas, Springwoof and Brynnmck.

I hurried into the rectory kitchen and called Father Caisson, told him in clipped tones which of my commitments to take over, which to reschedule. I called it an "emergency of a spiritual nature", and he didn't ask any questions.

Soon I was on my knees by my bed. I reached for my calm center, but I couldn't find it. I couldn't pray. All I could do was remember Raymond Vecchio.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

I first came to Chicago at the tail end of the Vietnam War, escaping a VA Hospital in Hawaii. I'd thought I had a real calling for it, offering comfort to soldiers wounded in body and spirit. But the things those young men had seen, had done, slowly eroded first my fervent immigrant's patriotism, and then my faith. I could not bear one more tale of horrors in the Khe Sanh or betrayal on the streets of Saigon. I had to get away.

I requested reassignment back home, to Boston. But the greatest immediate need was in Chicago. Location was trumped by urgency, and I gratefully accepted.

As soon as I stepped off the plane at O'Hare and felt the bite of fall in the air, I knew I'd made the right choice. The damp heat of Oahu slipped away like a bad dream.

The congregation of St. Michael's was Italian rather than Irish, but they welcomed me with open arms. And open tables. The matriarchs of the church seemed to believe that I was in danger of fading away. After four years of bachelor-foraging and hospital cafeteria food, I was confronted with several dinner invitations a week. It seemed rude to refuse, and hospitality apparently required that I eat until ... actually, I never did find any excuse to stop eating that an Italian-American mother would accept. I had to ask Sister Gina to let out my pants twice in the first nine weeks, until I began declining the invitations.

It wasn't all baptisms and family dinners. The wealthiest man in the parish was Mr. Zuko. The man was a pillar of the church; he contributed to the roof fund, set-up scholarships so that less fortunate parishioners could have their sons educated at St. Francis, and provided a sober example of piety, refusing to touch meat or alcohol during Lent. But no one ever sat in the Zukos' pew, whether the family was in attendance at Mass or not. A childhood in Belfast had made me sensitive to the subtle difference between respect and fear. The deferential body language Mr. Zuko evoked in my congregation said he held more over them than simple wealth and power.

I confronted old Father Moretti, and he admitted that Mr. Zuko was boss of a local organized crime gang. My first impulse was to publicly deny Mr. Zuko communion next Sunday, but I let Father Moretti talk me out of it. I was young and self-righteous, but I'd no particular urge towards martyrdom.

Over the years I have corresponded with other priests about this issue, men of the cloth from Italy and Ireland, Somalia and Mexico, Providence and New York City. I've found no better solution than this: offer spiritual guidance when it is asked for, shelter my parishioners from the powerful and corrupt as best I can, and let man's law look after itself.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

That first year I taught a catechism class to a group of 12-year-old boys twice a week, and it was there that I first met Raymond Vecchio. Raymond was just a bit pudgy and full of mischief. He had a gift of the gab that let him talk himself out of almost as much trouble as he managed to get himself into.

Most of the boys were content to coast through the class. Not Raymond. He enjoyed challenging orthodox interpretations of Scripture, and responded better to rejoinders based on faith and emotion than declarations of reason or authority. I would have encouraged such a bright lad towards the priesthood, but Raymond was no third son like me. He was the sole living son, since the Vecchios lost their youngest to the whooping cough a few years back. Raymond would carry on the family name.

Over the next year he grew taller, thinner, more serious. One day that spring he came into the room. Young Franco Zuko, sitting with a group of his friends in the back corner, snickered. Raymond flushed, sat in the front corner near the door, far as he could be from Franco, and didn't say a word for the next hour.

Franco seemed to lose interest after a week or two. But Raymond wouldn't engage the way he used to. I missed our lively discussions. Still, boys that age can be moody, up one day and down the next, so I didn't think too much of it until the boys' first confession.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession." I recognized Raymond's whisper through the confessional screen.

I waited. Each of the boys had been carefully coached in how to confess, what types of sins they might want to bring up, and what to expect. If Raymond got well and truly stuck, I would help, but it was best if he could muddle through by himself. In the mean time, I tried to predict what Raymond would be confessing to. Impure thoughts had been popular today, but Raymond was the very last of the boys to confess. That was often the sign of someone who felt a true burden on their soul. From what I'd heard of Raymond's father, the man wasn't worthy of the name, so perhaps it was a failure to honor his father.

"I didn't do anything," Raymond said. The ragged edge to his voice told me this wasn't a denial, but an admission of guilt.

"That was sinful?" I asked quietly.

"They held Marco down," Raymond told me.

A long moment of silence while I waited to say if he would say more.

"And you didn't do anything?"

"I started to say something," Raymond insisted, "but Frankie _looked_ at me, and I froze up."

Frankie? Ah. Franco Zuko.

Raymond was speeding up now, no longer in a whisper, voice cracking into a higher octave. "Frankie, he started bouncing a basketball off Marco's face, and Marco was yelling for me to help, until he couldn't yell anymore, and Frankie just kept hurting him. Finally they left him there on the floor, bleeding, and I didn't do anything."

"What do you think you could have done?"

"I could have stopped them! I could have yelled at Frankie to stop, or gone and called the cops, or at least called an ambulance after."

"So why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I guess ... I guess I was afraid."

I felt a rare and precious certainty that I was in just the right place, at the right time, to do God's will. Young Raymond was struggling with much the same issue that I was. And I could help.

"Fear's not a sin," I told him. "It is important to resist evil, when and where you can. But at the same time, the Lord doesn't expect us to sacrifice ourselves in a hopeless cause. If you had tried to stop the three of them, likely you'd just have been beaten to a pulp yourself."

"I could've called the cops," Raymond interrupted. A good sign, that he wasn't looking to be let off, but was taking full responsibility.

"You could have, yes. So the question is, if something like that happens again, will you?"

"Yeah. I will, Father," he said, determined.

"Then you've learned a lesson from it. As you grow to be a man, you'll need to be both brave and wise, to do what good you can in this world. And when you fail - "

"I won't! Not again."

"We all do, son. That's why God has given us the sacrament of confession, so that when we make mistakes, we can be forgiven. Do you sincerely repent of your sin?"

"I do," was the subdued response.

"Then I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

When he was eighteen, Raymond asked Irene Zuko to the senior prom. It was something of a lesson in the Law of Unintended Consequences.

The following week Franco Zuko offered Francesca, Raymond's fourteen year-old sister, a ride home from choir. As she explained it to me, Franco asked her to the prom. She refused. When he insisted and tried to push her into giving him a kiss, Francesca slapped Franco, got out of the car, and walked home.

Young Mister Zuko's story of what happened in the car was detailed, creative, and explicit; it spread like wildfire through the neighborhood. I pieced together what happened when word of it reached her father. He threatened to throw Francesca out of the house, insisting that he wouldn't "warehouse used goods under my roof." Apparently Raymond said that if Francesca were thrown out, then he would leave to look after her. Their mother, Carlotta, said that she would leave as well, and that between them they should be able to afford a very nice apartment. Raymond's father retreated to the local pool hall and got so plastered he had to be carried home. Not the first time nor the last, of course.

Raymond broke off his relationship with Irene Zuko.

There are times when the members of the fairer sex remind me of ravaging hyenas, and this was one of them. Francesca was excluded from social gatherings, followed everywhere by loud whispers, and there was a constant stream of prophylactics dropped into her locker. Francesca had always been a sweet if headstrong girl. She changed that spring. Francesca started going by, "Frannie." Her style of dress changed to the aggressively feminine, and she went through life hard-eyed, daring anyone to make something of it.

Raymond got in a lot of fights in the last months of his senior year at St. Francis.

Francesca went on plenty of dates in high school, all of them with yobs I wouldn't want within a city block of any daughter of mine. In her senior year, a young man by the name of Guy Rankin went out on a date with Francesca and assaulted her in his car, parked right outside the Vecchio home. Raymond heard his sister's cries, dragged Guy from the car, and beat him half to death.

"It's good to see _someone_ stepping up to be the man of the family," the widow Fusco approved when she filled me in on the details during my weekly visit. Apparently the Vecchios agreed, because none of them ever mentioned the incident to me.

When a 25-year-old unemployed machinist proposed to Francesca a few months later, she immediately took him up on it. As she told me tiredly, "Any guy who's willing to buy this cow is enough of a catch for me, Father."

Could I have done more for Francesca? I think perhaps I should have.

The night Francesca informed me of her wedding, I called my little sister, Mary, back in Boston. She knew from the very tone of my voice that I couldn't speak of what troubled me. Mary chattered on about my nephew Tommy's new favorite bedtime story and young Beth's teething troubles until I thanked her and said goodnight.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Raymond met his fiance, Angela Bertucci, at the Police Academy. I was a bit worried about how they would raise their children, with both of them on the police force, but Raymond had no doubts.

"Angie's the one, Father. This woman will be the mother of my children, the one who'll be cooking me Timpano di Scamarro Imbottito when we're old and gray."

They had a glorious June wedding. The church was full of smiles and proud tears, the Vecchio and Bertucci clans joined together in a joyous moment. I always ask for a picture from the weddings I officiate. The sky over Raymond and Angela's heads is a perfect shade of blue in that picture, as if the Lord himself rejoiced with us.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The Funeral Mass for Raymond's father, Serge Vecchio, was poorly attended. His brother Angelo was there, as were Serge's wife and children. Fanelli's, the pool hall where he spent much of his time, had closed for the day, and a handful of his drinking buddies had shown up.

Carlotta was the only one who seemed to truly mourn him. Angie sat beside her, quietly murmuring words of comfort through the service. The rest of the family filled a pew, with Raymond perched at the outside edge. I wasn't certain if he was protecting his family or preparing for a quick exit.

That Mass was the first time I'd ever seen Serge Vecchio in the Church. I don't speak ill of the dead; doesn't stop me from thinking it. I did my best, carefully arranging the service for the comfort of those left behind. But I couldn't help thinking the only way Serge Vecchio was getting through the Pearly Gates was if St. Peter was having an off day.

Serge's brother took off after the Mass. Raymond was the only male at the graveside service, his head and shoulders standing out above the crowd of black-clad women he was now responsible for.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been six weeks since my last confession."

I recognized Raymond's voice, a break in the intimate anonymity of the confessional. "What are your sins?"

"My wife and I have been trying to have kids for a long time now. Years. And ... things have been rough lately. We've been arguing a lot. I mean, we always argued, but it's not fun anymore. We've both been working a lot of OT, avoiding each other."

The silence dragged out. "And?" I asked.

"Last night, when I came home, she told me she'd gone to the doctor and gotten tested. The doc said she was fine. My wife, she said she wanted me to go get tested. I told her there was no way I was doing that. She got in my face, said if I wasn't man enough to give her children; she'd find someone who could. And I said, well, I called her a bad word, Father. Angie slapped me. And I ... I hit her, knocked her down."

Oh, Raymond. There was a loud sniffing sound.

"I've never hit a woman before," Raymond insisted, "Pop used to do that, sometimes, and I swore I wouldn't. I just ... I got so angry."

"Was she injured?"

"No. No, thank God." That was a heart-felt prayer of thanksgiving.

"What happened next?"

"I tried to give her a hand up, but Angie wouldn't take it. She got up, shoved me, and told me I had one hour to get my stuff together and get out of the house."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I left, went back to Ma's place."

I sent a quick prayer up to God. I had heard too many confessions like this, over the years, and they were rarely one-time occurrences. Men fell into patterns of abuse that continued over years. "Violence against your wife is a serious matter. You swore before God to love, honor, and cherish this woman. Why did you hit her?"

"I never meant to do it! I just lost it," Raymond said, voice hoarse.

"Losing control when you're angry is no excuse, but a further fault." My voice had a harsher edge than it should, but I truly feared for Raymond in this.

"I know," he muttered. "It won't happen again, Father."

"Don't tell me, tell God. Let me hear a sincere Act of Contrition."

Raymond prayed for forgiveness and the strength to control himself in future.

"I can absolve you, but you'll need to make amends to your wife."

"I understand that, Father."

"I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go forth and sin no more."

A quiet shuffling. Raymond opened the door to exit the confessional, paused, and closed it again. "When I called her this morning, Angie said she wants a divorce. Not because of last night. Just because of ... everything else."

I leaned against the wall. "The Church doesn't recognize divorce." I tried to make the next as delicate as possible. "But if there's truly no chance of children, an annulment could be granted."

Raymond let out a harsh chuckle. "Yeah. Then maybe we could take out a full-page ad in the Sun-Times, let everybody know I'm shooting blanks." I heard him shift. "No. Angie doesn't want to be married to me anymore, and I can see why. But she wouldn't do that to me." And with that he was gone.

Next Sunday Raymond came to Mass with his family, but Angie wasn't there. It was seven years before I saw her again.

 

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

I was shoveling the sidewalk outside the church, wheezing in the frigid morning air. Each shovel full of snow was wet and heavy, God's way of reminding me I wasn't a teenager any more. I heard a sudden blare of horns and turned to see Raymond's green car pull a turn, with spectacular disregard of oncoming traffic, into the parking lot. Raymond was bundled up in a heavy coat and wearing one of those knitted caps his mother was so fond of making. I leaned on the shovel and rested while he trudged towards me. I'd seen Raymond at Mass with his family on Sundays, but we'd not exchanged words since I'd refused to press charges against Joey Paducci for taking money from the poor box. A bad bit of business, that'd turned out to be.

"Hey, Father," he greeted me. "Want a hand?"

"That'd be a kindness, Raymond, thank you. I'll just get the salt from the basement, and we'll have the sidewalk safe for pious old ladies in no time."

Advent season was upon us. It's a difficult time for many parishioners, particularly those bereft of family through death, divorce, or distance. I wondered if perhaps Raymond was feeling the loss of his wife, with Christmas coming up.

I studied Raymond as I scattered the salt. He was digging into the snow with a quick ferocity. Not a social visit, then.

"Cuppa tea?" I invited as he finished, falling back on a courtesy I'd taken in with mother's milk.

"Yeah," Raymond answered, "that'd be good."

We retreated to the rectory kitchen. I put the kettle on to boil, and got a tin of Barry's tea, sugar, milk, and biscuits out on a tray for us. Raymond had an odd smile on his face as he watched me pour the hot water and loose tea into the teapot. The radiator pinged as we let the tea brew and soaked in the warmth.

"You'll be glad to know there's one other guy in Chicago who makes his tea the same nutty way as you, Father," Raymond commented as I poured the tea through a strainer into a cup for him.

I smiled. "It's good I'm not the only civilizing influence among the barbarians. You still take three sugars?"

He nodded. He only took a single sip, and then sat, long legs stretched out to the side of the chair, staring down into the cup.

"I think I'm in love," Raymond said quietly, almost to himself.

I leaned forwards, ears perked up for a hint of what was going on with him. It didn't sound like congratulations were in order.

"I'm in love with another man."

I took a breath, let it out. Another man. Well. I suppose I should have guessed, when I first saw Raymond with the Mountie. When he was near, Raymond burned brighter than I'd seen in years. "Do you want to confess?"

He looked up at me, almost startled. "No. No, I haven't done anything wrong, Father."

"Well, I can't imagine you've come looking for my blessing."

Raymond shrugged, and then let his shoulders fall down into a slump. In my experience, people don't ask a priest for advice when they don't know what's right. They come to be talked into it.

"You know as well as I that carnal love between men is against God's law, and that it would put you outside the community of faith," I said.

My Uncle Joseph was a burly man with a big laugh and a ready smile. I'd not seen him since I was ten years old, the summer he moved in with a mate of his from the factory. I tried to write to him during my first year at the seminary, but no one from the neighborhood would admit to knowing where he'd got to.

I did my best to balance that harsh truth with the Lord's own mercy. "There are many kinds of love, Raymond. It may be that you've mistaken the love for a brother for that of a wife."

Raymond shook his head and chuckled hollowly. "The things I want ... there's nothing brotherly about it."

"Does he feel the same way about you?"

Raymond dipped a finger into the tea, then immediately stuck it into his mouth, reminding me of the cheerful boy I'd once known.

"I don't know. Probably not," he answered after a bit.

"Well then, if you truly care for this man," I said, "should you be leading him into sin?"

He sighed, long and slow. "I don't know if I can help myself."

"Of course you can," I insisted. "You can do what virtuous men always do when they desire something they can't have. You'll keep it in your pants -"

Raymond snorted a little laugh. I ignored it. " - take care of business when you must, and come to confession for the impure thoughts." I was already listening to Francesca's confession of lustful thoughts about Benton Fraser once a week. Adding another Vecchio to the list shouldn't be too much of a burden.

Raymond took a sip of tea, placed the cup on the table, and stood to go. "I'll try, Father," he said, pulling on his coat.

"I know you'll do the right thing, Raymond," I told him. A white lie. I didn't know, but I had faith.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

I heard someone enter the confessional booth. They didn't say anything. After a few moments, I said, "May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in his mercy."

Someone took a deep breath. "I shot him, Father. God forgive me, I shot Benny," Raymond said.

I felt a moment of piercing sorrow. Benton Fraser of the lovely singing voice, old-fashioned courtesies, and child-like faith that law and right were the same thing. Shot.

"Is he dead?" I asked. My voice was soft and flat. I'd heard confessions of betrayal before, even murder. This one, I didn't want to hear. But I had to listen to Raymond's confession.

"No! He's ... he's stable. They say he's gonna pull through. But the bullet, it's too close to his spine, they can't take it out. And if ... if it moves, he might not walk again."

"You shot him in the back?"

"It was an accident."

"Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out," I ordered him.

The story Raymond told me was like a tale from the Old Country. Once there were two men, closer than brothers, until a wicked woman came between them. I recognized some of the story. Just last week, Benton had spoken in confession of a woman he felt he had once betrayed.

"He ran after the train," Raymond said, voice stumbling, "and Victoria had a gun, I think she had a gun, so I drew and shot at her, but Benny got in the way, and he got hit. He fell back onto the platform, and he was bleeding everywhere..." He trailed off.

"Was he running after the train to capture her?" I asked.

My words fell into a stretching silence. "No," Raymond whispered. "Lying there in the snow, he said, 'I should be with her.' He was gonna run away with her."

"And how did you feel, right before you took the shot?"

"I don't know. Scared that she might shoot Benny? That he might get on the train? Angry. I told that woman if she hurt him, I'd kill her. Yeah, I was angry."

I heard myself speak in a cold and distant voice. "Then I have two things to say to you, Raymond. One, you don't sound like a man confessing to an accident. And, two, it's not the first time you've harmed someone you loved, when you found out they were leaving you."

"You think I shot Benny on _purpose_?" Raymond snarled through the lattice.

"I think perhaps a part of you wanted to stop him leaving, no matter the cost." I replied steadily. "Am I wrong?"

I heard nothing but silence for a time, then a single sob. "God, what's wrong with me? Am I some kind of monster?" Raymond asked.

"No," I assured him. "Just a man. Give it to God, Raymond. Give it to God."

It was a long night. Raymond cried, and he railed, and he prayed. By morning, I believe he'd found a measure of peace. He would make amends to his friend by seeing him through his recovery, however long that might take.

"I'd do that anyway, Father."

"I know you would, Raymond."

I told Raymond that, at some point in the future, God would send him an opportunity to do something extraordinary, to balance the harm he had done. And Raymond agreed that, should that happen, he would say yes.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Irene Zuko's Funeral Mass bordered on spectacle. Her brother Franco spared no expense. The nave over-flowed with flowers. Mourners from all walks of life were eager to pay their respects, both to the murdered woman and to her powerful brother. Irene had tried to escape her family's blood money, but the violence found her in the end.

Franco Zuko and Raymond were both pale, silent, as united in their bereavement as they had been in their antagonism all these years. Another person that Raymond loved had been hurt. I worried for him, but Raymond hadn't come to see me. Perhaps Father Caisson had heard his confession. I preached a homily focusing on Mother Theresa's message, "The success of love is in the loving - it is not in the result of loving." I doubt it helped.

Benton was by Raymond's side all during the Mass and the graveside service, his bright red uniform rivaling the exotic colors of orchids in the sea of mourning black. The man had been a source of inspiration, exasperation, anger, love, jealousy, remorse, and sexual confusion to Raymond. I thanked God, in that moment, that he was here when Raymond needed a friend.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

One bright and hazy morning in the summer of 1997, I entered the nave to prepare for the morning Mass and found Carlotta Vecchio kneeling by the statue of the Madonna. I would never interrupt a parishioner at prayer, but she was clearly distraught, so I knelt beside her. The votive candle in front of her flickered low; she had lit it some time ago.

After a few minutes, she turned to greet me. "Father," Carlotta said, voice rough but even, heedless of the tears still running down her face.

"Carlotta. What's wrong?"

She shook her head mutely.

"Is there anyone you would like me to remember in my prayers?"

She sniffed and settled her shoulders, holding her head high. "I'm just asking the Virgin to keep my family safe. Your prayers would be welcome, Father."

Carlotta had a St. Jude medal cradled in her hand. St. Jude is known as the patron saint of lost causes. I've often wondered what sense of irony led the Chicago Police Department to adopt him as their patron saint, but I'd come to expect a flood of the extended Vecchio family at Mass on the Feast of St. Jude.

I was intrigued and concerned. What had Raymond gotten himself into this time, that his mother couldn't even confide in a priest? I didn't want to add to Carlotta's burden by badgering her, but I added him to my daily intercessions.

Carlotta came into the church every morning through the summer and into the fall. In all that time, I didn't once see Raymond. Rumor had it that he had moved out of his mother's house and into an apartment of his own after the fire. Probably for the best, but I wondered. In November Carlotta came down with a nasty chest cold, and I found Francesca kneeling in her place. The boiler was having trouble again, and the church was cool enough that I could see my own breath in the air that morning.

I waited until she stood to go.

"Francesca," I greeted her, "is your Mother any better?"

"Oh, Father B!" she said, tugging her fake fur coat tighter. "The fever's broken, but she needs a few days in bed. She was gonna try to come in to pray, so I told her I'd drop by on my way in to work."

"Do you think she'd appreciate a visit this afternoon?"

Francesca shook her head. "She'd love to see you, but you know Ma. She'd get up and start cooking and cleaning to get the place ready."

"And how's your brother?"

Francesca checked her watch. "Hey, look at the time! I'd better get going, or I'm gonna be late."

"Francesca," I snapped as she walked past me. "Where is Raymond? Is he in trouble?"

She turned away. "Father, please don't ask, okay?" she said to the Madonna. "That's the best thing you can do to help, just don't ask, and don't talk about it."

I had already been praying that Saint Jude watch over Raymond Vecchio at Mass each day. After that I added him to my private prayers, as well.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Word over the back fence was Raymond had been shot, and was in hospital. I wanted to visit, but after a year and a half of brush-offs from the Vecchio family I thought it best to stay away.

It was a relief to catch sight of Raymond with his family at Sunday Mass. I beamed at him, and he shyly ducked his head. Raymond's arm was in a sling, but he moved easily enough. My usual focus was scattered during the Mass; I couldn't help but glance over at Raymond, as if he might disappear again if I didn't keep watch.

In the silence after the Gloria, I composed a prayer of thanksgiving. A boy dropped a hymnal with a loud bang. A few members of the congregation reacted to the noise. Raymond instantly dropped to the floor. I believe I was the only one outside of his family to notice. From decades past, I recognized a man whose body had returned from war, but whose mind was trapped there still.

After the Mass, I tried to speak to Raymond, but he slipped away as Mrs. Caruso cornered me with questions about her granddaughter's christening.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tuesday evening I heard a quiet mutter of conversation from near the confessionals, then a high-pitched, frantic, "... sorry!" in a boy's voice. I hurried over there. It sounded like Mikey's voice.

A tall man in an overcoat had Mikey cornered by the confessionals, leaning menacingly over him in the shadows. Mikey had been one of my altar boys a few years ago. Now he was a gangly fifteen. The man threatening him was too tall to be Franco Zuko. It must be one of his wise guys. This had gone far enough. I moved forward to intercede.

"This is a House of God," I said with authority, stepping within arm's reach of them. The tall man turned slightly towards me, while still blocking Mikey in the corner. I saw the sling, and that was the moment when I recognized Raymond Vecchio.

"Father," he said coolly, "little Mikey here has been stealing money out of his Mother's purse."

"Well," I stammered, "I'm sure he won't do it again, will you, Mikey?"

Mikey, pale, nodded a vehement yes.

"So why don't you get going, and I'll see you at confession tomorrow." I reached under Raymond's arm, avoiding his gaze, and tugged Mikey out of the corner. He ducked and ran out of the church.

Which left me alone with Raymond.

"You frightened him," I said quietly.

Raymond's lips curled up in a small, satisfied smile. "Good."

I forced myself to meet his eyes, dark with an unfamiliar cruelty. "And you're frightening me, right now."

His head tilted to the side a moment, as if considering. Then the smile slipped from his face, and he straightened up. Raymond took a quick in breath, as if to speak, and then spun and walked out of the church, steps almost long enough to qualify as a run.

Raymond wasn't in Church that Sunday. I spoke to Francesca after the service.

"Francesca - is Raymond all right?"

She glanced around, as if afraid someone might overhear, and then shrugged. "He's up and down, Father. Some days he's okay, some days, like today, Ray doesn't even get out of bed."

"Has he been acting ... a bit off? Last week, he didn't seem himself."

Francesca straightened and glared at me, chin raised. "He's _fine_. Just a little messed up from getting _shot_, right? There's nothing wrong with my brother that can't be cured by some time off, at home with his family." She nodded, fiercely, as if agreeing with herself, and then turned and walked off.

It was a fine performance, and I might have believed it if I hadn't seen her pull the exact same act at the tender age of fourteen. When it came down to a choice between yelling or crying her heart out, Francesca would bite your head off, every time.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

I pulled into St. Michael's parking lot that evening, exhausted from six hours of hospice visits with dying men and women who had requested a priest's presence, or were just in need of a hand to hold.

Raymond was sitting on the rectory steps waiting for me, head in his hands.

"Father," he greeted me curtly, "we need to talk."

"All right, Raymond," I said, joining him on the steps. It was uncomfortable, but I was oddly reluctant to invite him in.

"I've asked a woman to marry me, and she said yes," Raymond announced, as if he were throwing a gauntlet at my feet.

"Any woman in particular?" I asked.

A ghost of his old smile played over Raymond's face. "Stella. She's tough, smart, beautiful, a real lady."

"I'm glad for you both," I said, groping for understanding, "But you realize I can't marry you in the Church."

Raymond started to shrug, then winced. "I know, Father, that's not what this is about. Stella wants a civil ceremony, anyway." He bent down and re-tied his shoe. While still bent over, he said, "Last week, you saw something. Said I frightened you."

"That's true," I said cautiously.

He straightened up. "Yeah, well, I scare myself sometimes. The past twenty months ... I was trying to do the right thing. But it went bad. Real bad. And now it's like I can't get out from under, can't get clean of it."

I noticed a fine tremor to his hands. "I think I'm going to hell," Raymond said clearly. "And there's no one in the Greater Chicago area who deserves it more."

I'd enough years in the clergy to recognize a man on the brink. Any hint of compassion would be enough to send him over.

"I've had quite enough of this pity party," I sneered. Raymond jerked as if I'd slapped him. "You don't get to decide which sins can be forgiven. That's God's job, and I don't see Him asking you for any help on it." I stood up and dusted off the seat of my pants. "Now, I need some time to prepare, and so do you. I'll see you here at dawn tomorrow. Make sure you've eaten - nothing's so irritating as a penitent fainting away. And wear your grandmother's crucifix, Francesca's been keeping it warm for you."

Raymond stared up at me.

"Go on, then!" I sputtered, in a tone guaranteed to make any man educated by nuns snap to. Raymond jumped up and walked to his car.

I called Father Caisson and then sank to my knees beside my bed, remembering Raymond Vecchio.

Raymond could have spoken to a friend, to a psychiatrist. But he came to me. I am a priest. From Job I learned that sometimes God tests hardest those he loves best. From the Christ crucified I learned that redemption can be found through suffering.

I set my alarm and slept through the night. This morning I woke and ate breakfast. I walked from the rectory to the church doors as the sun appeared on the horizon. Raymond was waiting for me by the confessionals, eyes downcast. He was wearing his crucifix and a simple knitted sweater. Perhaps his mother had made it for him.

I stepped inside the confessional. Raymond joined me.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been ... God. It feels like a lifetime since my last confession." Raymond said quietly from the other side of the screen.

Finally I found it in myself to pray.

_Almighty God, Raymond Vecchio has gone down into a dark place, and he believes himself unworthy of Your mercy and love. Grant me the strength and the wisdom to hear his confession, and to lead him, through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, back to You. Amen._

I have faith that, God willing, it will be so.


End file.
